Rowan Tree and Red Thread

I so rarely remember my dreams I had to get this one written down.

I dreamt I was viewing a house on a hill. The walk up was quite long and I was accompanied by a neighbour who had nothing good to say about the woman who owned number 11, the place I was to see.

Finally I reached the turn in the cul de sac at the top of the hill and no. 11 was there, a low terraced building with a veranda covered in brass vines in a heavy relief. The door was open and the neighbour came in with me, complaining all the while until the owner suddenly appeared and the neighbour made himself (herself?) scarce.

Inside the house it was open plan with a low ceiling. The veranda was actually part of the hall, lined with shelves of potted plants, that ran straight into the kitchen.

The kitchen was dark, with more shelves and an old black range in the centre. One wall was open, and the floor sloped down into the next room. A narrow window opened onto a view of a beach and the sea, but from a great height as though at the top of a cliff.

The next room was sunken, down a couple of steps from the kitchen. It was filled with with low chairs and huge cushions, with a TV in the corner. Again the far side of the room was open, this time onto a wide steep staircase leading down to another floor.

I made some comment about the safety of the stair with little kids, and the owner replied and we descended. The next floor was a narrow corridor with three rooms and another stairway off it. I looked in the first room and found a gorgeous high ceiling bedroom with enormous bookshelves and a glorious tall window letting in beautiful light. One of the other rooms was occupied by kids playing some console game so I looked in the next and found a sort of spare room utility room, again with a tremendously high ceiling and light streaming down from skylights. The room was filled with books and washing.

Then I woke up.

Damn! Now I want that house.